In the morning I am awoken to the inexplicable sounds of what appear to be jackhammers, drills, and Demons from Hell cavorting outside the cabin window. Turned out the crew was lowering the massive motorized lifeboats that consisted of our view from outside, and lowering them into the water. These boats would serve as ferries between the main ship and Sitka.
Going up onto the damp deck, Sitka is a small city, larger than Juneau it would seem, and spread out amidst small islands and mist. A medium sized traffic bridge can be seen in the distance, and just below it, the ferries have already begun to drop passengers off at the small dock.
Sitka, for whatever reasons, sticks in my mind as a name, until I finally figure out on the short ride over that the name is familiar for the type of spruce tree that the region grows. I’ve seen fairly high end acoustic guitar manufacturers proudly proclaim that their guitars are using "Sitka spruce" wood, which is why I feel like I’ve seen the name of this city somewhere before.
Disembarking and walking on the streets, Sitka is refreshingly less tourist oriented than Downtown Juneau, but it still has its fair share of Alaska branded memorabilia. Added into the mix are a great number of small shops displaying wood carvings by local artists. Walking along, I realize now where all those sweatshirts and mugs with "Alaska" on them come from – grandmothers and grandfathers taking cruises and stopping by these bustling tourist shops with the intent of bringing back a keepsake for the little ones. Naturally, the second best way to remember the majesty of the untouched wilderness of Alaska than a generic totem pole design on a 100% Cotton sweatshirt?
The first best is obviously a fresh, decapitated bald eagle head. Bald eagles, I might add, happen to be in greater abundance up here, and I’m sure the feds wouldn’t mind a sportly culling of the herd for the purposes of treasured memories. (Incidentally, the third best way to remember Alaska happens to be a photograph of you holding a decapitated bald eagle head, which is then printed onto a mug, or ironed onto a sweatshirt. Some people argue that this is better than just a plain old vanilla Alaska mug or sweatshirt, but I say the eagle loses much of its appeal at a smaller resolution, and plus iron on transfers wash off).
Sitka stands out because of a palpable Russian influence. In the center of town, a large Russian Orthodox church stands, roadways curving around its imposing steeple. The doorway is flanked by cracked bells with cyrillic writing, and a hand lettered sign asks for two dollars to view the icons contained within. I just about march inside with a fanfare, confident that my semester spent in Wolfson’s Russian class at USC would elevate me to the status of "lesser master" when it came to iconography, but instead was served up with a cold reminder about knowledge, and how lack of use is very closely tied to retention. My enjoyment of the iconostasis was, at least, partially informed with some semblance of knowledge, but as I walked around inside, I couldn’t help but hear Wolfson’s voice chiding me for not paying more attention in his class, or not doing more primary source readings in his class. I shout my apologies to the voices in my head and quickly beat a retreat out.
Further on, about a half mile out of town along a two laned road, lies the Sitka National Park entrance. Along the way we pass a large, orange, Orthodox Bishop’s house, preserved by the park service, as well as a huge fat orange cat licking its crotch (I’ll take a moment to note that people tell me they read this blog because they think my writing is lyrical and poetic, but I prefer to think people read this because I deal out the straight shit, unfiltered).
The Sitka National Park visitor’s center is home to some impressive totem poles, as well as a clearly bored native Tinglit carver. In his workshop, he fielded all manner of hard hitting questions as "Did you carve all these yourself?" and "Are these pictures in this photo album of carvings all yours?" and "Where’s the bathroom?" I just miss the showing of the 12 minute introductory film, and walk around a bit looking at the displays instead. The rest of my family starts chomping at the bit, and we return to the boat.
On board, I fall asleep for four hours straight, and can’t remember any of my crazy dreams. I wake up again to the rattling sounds of the crew, this time reattaching the lifeboats, and the engine rumbling to life, headed towards Ketchikan.
